Mohjiata

We drove up the snowy, winding road towards the cozy A-frame cabin. It was early evening. The sun was falling below the horizon; it was bone-chillingly cold.

Anthony parked the car. His boots made a delightful slush sound in the snow. I watched as he punched in the passcode on a panel on the front door. He gave me two thumbs up to let me know everything was okay. I got out of the car; I was bundled up from head to toe. I looked like a marshmallow wrapped in bubble wrap.

We didn't take a lot of belongings with us. We fit our clothes into one suitcase. We had a separate bag for bathroom necessities.

The property owner left on the heat and lights. There was a table with complimentary chocolates, fruit, and wine. There was a navy blue guestbook for us to sign. It was a charming cabin; it looked just like it did in the listing's photos.

It was a quick two-and-a-half-hour drive from Portland, Oregon to Packwood, Washington. It was our chance to reconnect. We badly needed quality time together. We wanted to get away from everything after my miscarriage. I had a spontaneous pregnancy loss at 11 weeks.

Anthony has been extra supportive since the miscarriage. He has an optimistic spirit. He understands that successful pregnancy isn't guaranteed. Ever since I got pregnant, he has made sure that I'm comfortable, that my stress level is low, and that I'm honest. He doesn't want me to pretend I have different feelings than what I really have. It's easy to feign happiness. He knows that.

We're not ready to try for a child again just yet. When it's time, it'll be time. For now, we're getting to know each other on a deeper level.

+++

Packwood is known for its cozy cabins. They look like homes out of a woodland-Christmas fantasy—the type of picturesque scene you'd find on a puzzle box. It's the perfect escape from the urban jungle.

The cabins come with amenities like cedar hot tubs, wood stoves, and fire pits. Our charming stay was just a short drive to Mt. Rainier National Park, the White Pass Ski Area, and the Pacific Crest Trail. We've skied in this area with family. We usually come here for the holidays. We thought we'd try our luck here for Valentine's Day.

The first night, we just wanted to stay indoors. All I wanted to do was cuddle on the couch, watch bad TV, and drink hot cocoa. Anthony had packed a frozen lasagna in the cooler. He fiddled with the oven while I looked through a tea chest. I found the typical flavors: earl gray, jasmine, chamomile, peppermint, orange spice, and apple cinnamon.

Anthony and I scoped out the cabin together. I pulled back the shower curtain to find a bathtub-shower combo with a fancy showerhead panel with different heat and massage settings. He opened up the cabinets and found extra soap and shampoo—both made with goat milk, honey, and bergamot.

In the bedroom, we found an ottoman with quilts and crocheted blankets; I assumed they were handmade by the property owner's wife. There was a silver chest with old board games. Robes hung on hooks in the closet.

In the kitchen, I found plenty of dishes and silverware. On the fridge was a laminated list with suggested restaurants and tourist spots. There was bottled water for guests.

I thumbed through some books in the living room. The shelves were full with thick volumes. The titles dated back to the 18th and early 19th centuries.

With 50 minutes still left on the clock for the lasagna, we decided to watch TV. I took off my tall, teal boots. I wore my fuzziest rainbow socks. I was in an oversized black sweater and gray jeans. Anthony wore a blue plaid shirt and dark jeans. For whatever reason, I was mesmerized by the colors we picked out for the day.

Anthony grinned. "Something funny, serious, or weird?" he asked. I replied, "Something funny."

He pulled up videos from YouTube. We watched a British sketch comedy show. Comedians competed to see who could make up the best dance to classic ringtones. We held hands. We laughed. I snorted a couple of times.

Then came a rattling. Something was knocking. Anthony paused the show. He said something like, "That noise is going to drive me crazy. Let's figure out what it is."

So we went around the cabin searching for the culprit. Anthony went to the kitchen and tested the appliances. The rattling continued from somewhere—it was hard to pinpoint from which room it came. I suspected it was a creaking pipe. I flipped on the bathroom lights—it was quiet and still. I tested the shower, sink, and toilet. Anthony meandered into the room. He said, "Anything suspicious here?" I shook my head. I said, "Seems pretty standard in here."

We opened closets. We turned things off and on. The rattling still continued at random intervals. 30 minutes were left on the lasagna. I went to the bedroom and jumped into the bed. Defeated, I dropped my head on a pillow. My body sank into the blankets and mattress. Anthony followed me into the room.

"The noise has got you that upset?" Anthony asked jokingly. I said, "I think I'm just hungry... and tired." Then we heard it. The rattling. It was crystal clear. It was in the bedroom.

"Hey, June, look at the chest," said Anthony.

I turned to my side. I looked at the silver chest with the games. The lock was shaking. "That's weird," I said. "I wonder why it's doing that."

"No idea. Maybe it has something to do with what's inside it. Or maybe it's in the way of a draft," he said.

I climbed out of bed. I had opened the box earlier to take a quick peek. I like to know what people leave behind to entertain guests. What can I say? I'm nosy. I grabbed the key that was attached to a chain hanging off the lock.

"Are you sure you want to open it?" asked Anthony.

"I opened it up earlier... plus, I'm pragmatic and rational. I doubt there is a poltergeist or spook hiding in there," I said as I unlocked the chest.

Anthony shrugged.

There was still a Monopoly box on top. I grinned at Anthony. "I suppose the upset feelings people have from a long and painful game of Monopoly rest here. Maybe that can materialize into a ghost," I joked.

He gave me a pity laugh.

I started pulling out the contents of the chest. It was a lot of old board games: Operation—Sorry—Twister—Candy Land—Checkers—Scrabble—Risk—Chess. There was a robotic dog buried at the bottom. It was turned on, and it was pushing into one side of the chest, likely causing the rattling, knocking, and shaking. I put the robot dog on the floor; it marched around the room.

Then, lo and behold, I found one box labeled Mohjiata. It was covered in dust. It was a dark box. It blended in with the interior of the chest. "Have you ever heard of a game called Mohjiata?" I asked Anthony.

"No, that doesn't ring a bell," he said.

We took the game with us to the living room. I set it on the coffee table. I took a rag and wiped off the dust. It was a simple box. Black. It had large letters in a yellow hue: the word Mohjiata. The box was banged up. The game had definitely been played many times, or it had been chucked outside and stomped all over.

Anthony checked on the lasagna. 10 minutes left. He yelled from the kitchen, "You sure you want to open that box? It could be like what happened in Jumanji."

"You're not serious, are you?" I snorted.

I lifted the top box slowly. I turned my head to the side, so I wouldn't accidentally inhale a whole slew of dust bunnies. There was a strong citrusy smell—it was bergamot. When I looked down, there were the contents of the game: cards with dented corners... game pieces in purple, green, and black... a guidebook... a foldable gameboard. There were notebooks with scribbled writing.

Anthony looked over my shoulder. "So, what the heck is this game?"

"It looks like some sort of Victorian detective game. It reminds me of Clue." I said. I lifted up a pendulum. It swayed back and forth. The gameboard was covered in paths, stairs, and doors. It was a blueprint of a mansion.

I picked up a character card. It had a pretty blonde woman on it in a purple dress and a giant hat made of black feathers. She wore pearls and black lace gloves. Her profession: psychic.

"It's her name," I said.

I cried a little.

Anthony bent low. He took the card from my hand. "Eleanor," he said. "It's a lovely name."

"Is this what she would have looked like? Blue eyes? Blonde hair? Rosy cheeks?" I said.

"I don't know. I doubt she would have been a Victorian psychic detective," he said while holding the card. "I think it's okay to wonder what she would have looked like, what her personality would have been like, what would have been her favorite things."

Anthony put the card on the table. I slid it my way. I held it in my hands. I cried. I was certain of one thing: it was Eleanor. She was speaking to me somehow. I don't care what anyone thinks. It was Eleanor. My heart was pounding. All those thoughts I had about what she could be like, those thoughts I had while I was pregnant... they came to the surface.

The timer on the oven went off. Anthony went to pull out the lasagna and check that it was done.

I flipped through people's scribbled notes:

"...Eleanor points to the blueberry stains on the tablecloth as a sign that the gardener was behind the crime."

"...Everyone, except Eleanor, thinks the Dentist killed the Butcher. Eleanor thinks the motivation doesn't make sense. Why would the Dentist hate the Butcher so much? More information should be gathered."

"...In the case of the missing child, Eleanor notes that wherever the child goes it ends up smelling like the child's mother's perfume. The child actively wants to be found, so she pours perfume in places to help the mom to find her."

+++

Anthony found plates and silverware. He called from the kitchen, "Lasagna is ready!"

I wiped the tears off my face with my shirt. I left the box open. I left the notes and Eleanor card on the table. I didn't lose sight of the fact that bergamot-scented items were randomly placed in the cabin. Oddly enough, I regularly wear a citrusy perfume with notes of bergamot. It's a Valentino blend called Voce Viva Eau de Parfum.

When I went into the kitchen, Anthony was lighting tall white candles. I sat in a seat across from him. He poured champagne into wine glasses.

"To a new tomorrow," he said as he handed me a glass.

"I can drink to that," I said.

He smiled.

I smiled as I thought of tea parties with stuffed animals, pink ribbons in blonde hair, band-aids on knees, dolls pushed in strollers, a girl pulling out her baby teeth, a girl laughing at funny pictures that she drew, a girl adding sprinkles to her chocolatey 10th birthday cake, a girl riding her favorite horse with bells around its neck, my daughter crying from an unsatisfactory grade on a test she cared about, my daughter packing boxes to go to college.

I smiled. I cried a little. We clinked our glasses.

"I miss her too," said Anthony.

The lasagna was tasty. It was just something you pull out of the frozen meal section at the grocery store. But it hit the spot.

We talked about our jobs. We complained about our parents. We laughed at silly things. We shared our worries about rising prices. My husband still had a sparkle in his eye—that one sparkle that's just for me and no one else.

After dinner, we sat in the window seat. We wrapped ourselves in blankets. We watched the snow. Icicles hung from the roof. No grass was visible. The pine branches drooped under the weight of snow. Anthony got really quiet. He was staring at something; I couldn't tell what.

I nudged him with my elbow. "You see something unusual out there?"

"Yeah, I don't know how you're missing it," he said.

"Can you give me a hint as to where to look?" I asked.

"Look over to the right by the trees," he said. He took my hand in his. He pointed with his hand to the strange thing.

It was a white buck. It had massive horns. The deer looked like an ectoplasm; its white fur was slightly translucent. I'm not sure what I saw. Are there white deer in Washington?

I kept watching. It had something silvery around its neck. Maybe bells? Perhaps the deer belonged to someone; maybe there's a nearby reindeer farm that sells Christmas decorations. I could hear the faint ringing of whatever it was around its neck. Then it vanished. Poof! Gone.

"Maybe I've been drinking too much," I said.

Anthony filled my cup up with more champagne. He said, "I saw it too. It's probably just camouflaged with the snow. Wild though right? I think it's a good sign."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

He cleared his throat. "Let me put it this way. The stars already know what's to come. The stars are old light from eons ago. Nature knows its way. One day it will rain and the flowers will grow. Today we have the snow. We hide, we hibernate, and we wait. We wait, June, we wait for the little flowers," he said.

I held his hand. I watched the snow. I wondered where the buck went to go hide. I wondered where many things hide until it's their time to appear.